Nolyn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Don’t let my size fool you.” He frowned. “I’m not a child.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by that,” Sephryn was swift to say, frustrated by how quickly some people took offense. “It’s just that my mother died nearly a thousand years ago, and I didn’t think Belgriclungreians lived so long.”

  The smile returned. “Dwarfs live longer than humans, but not nearly so long as Fhrey. I’m fifty-eight and look good for my age. I know about your mother from the stories.” Augustine moved to the open hearth, briskly rubbing his hands against the morning chill.

  “You’ve read The Book of Brin?” Sephryn asked.

  “Book of what? Never heard of it.”

  “Then how—” she started.

  He chuckled as if he were in on a joke. “King Rain, the founder of the Belgriclungreian Second Kingdom, was one of the heroes that entered the underworld along with your mother and father. The tales of that adventure have long been passed down by my people, along with many of the exploits relating to members of that valiant troupe.”

  “Oh . . . those stories.” She almost said myths but caught herself. Brinkle’s tone suggested he didn’t see the tales the same way. She had realized long ago that her parents, like most adults, enjoyed delighting their impressionable children by presenting a world that was more fantastical than the real one.

  “It’s just so exciting to think that you knew—actually spoke to—members of that famous fellowship. And your father? Is he still alive?”

  “Yes, he’s just a few years younger than Emperor Nyphron in fact.”

  “And you were born before Percepliquis was built, isn’t that right? You met Persephone and . . . did you know . . . did you meet . . . Suri?”

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled at the name. “The old woman was like a great-aunt. My mother used to take us for visits.”

  “Us?” Augustine asked, his eyes wide and attentive.

  This is so much more than a myth to him.

  “Yes. Nolyn, Roan and Gifford’s son, Bran, and me. Every summer we’d go to the Mystic Wood, a magical place, and it would have been even without Suri, but with her . . .”

  Fleeting, untethered memories blurred by time flooded her mind. Sephryn recalled a white wolf whom Suri conversed with. But she was only pretending . . . right? Sephryn remembered the softness and smell of the wolf’s fur when hugging it. Why would adults let me get so close to a vicious animal? And there was that tree, the one that supposedly housed an evil creature. Surely, that had to have been a fable . . . wasn’t it? And whenever Suri visited the still pond by the old willow, the fireflies had blinked in unison. That had to be a distorted recollection because magic—real magic—doesn’t truly exist. Or does it?

  Everything had seemed so real back then, but eight hundred years later, separating childish fantasy from adult reality was difficult. Regardless, some things she was certain about. She knew that those summers were the best times of her life, filled with friendship, laughter, music, and dance—for Suri loved to twirl. “Such a wonderful place to grow up, but . . .”

  “Yes? Go on.”

  “Well, it made everything that came after a bit disappointing.”

  Brinkle laughed again, his chuckling inviting and infectious. “I can just imagine. Or rather, I wish I could. I grew up in brutal stone halls—and it wasn’t just the walls and floors that were cold. The only warmth I received was listening to those grand tales of long-ago.” He shook his head in awe. “Those people, those heroes—so brave, so fearless—they truly cared for one another, and risked more than their lives to save the world. You don’t see that sort of selflessness anymore. These days everyone is out for themselves. If something doesn’t benefit them, they don’t bother to lift a finger. I grew up wanting to be Rain—not King Rain, but Rain the Digger—the member of that team who adventured above and below. My brother always got to be him when we pretended. I had to be Frost or Flood. No one wanted to be them. They were just builders and never went into the underworld, didn’t meet Drome.” Augustine looked at her with a whimsical flash of his eyes. “Your mother insulted him, didn’t she?”

  “No. She was rude to his servant, if you can believe what she said.”

  He gave her a sidelong stare. “You don’t?”

  “Well, it is a bit inconceivable, isn’t it? The idea that my parents died, visited old friends and family, and came back? And does it make any sense that they are the only ones to accomplish such things? I mean, in centuries of searching, no one else has found the witch’s hut, or spoken with gods, or claimed to stride the halls of Drome’s castle or Ferrol’s white tower.” She shrugged. “Just seems made up. None of it is in The Book of Brin, and if you met my mother, you’d know she wasn’t always a close friend to the truth.”

  “I see. Well, perhaps you can take comfort in the knowledge that King Rain confirmed the stories, passing them along to us, and we’ve handed them down word for word.”

  “But how do you know they weren’t distorted in the retellings?”

  “Precision,” Errol said.

  Sephryn dropped her face into her hand. “Please don’t.”

  Errol crossed his legs and folded his arms. “I’m just saying that dwarfs are an extremely punctilious people, that’s all.”

  “How about you?” Augustine’s attention could not be drawn away from Sephryn.

  “How about me, what?”

  “Can you do it? Can you shoot like your mother?”

  “Oh.” Sephryn sighed. She shook her head. “No one could shoot like Moya.”

  “But she taught you, yes?”

  “She taught me a great many things. Mostly things I wish she hadn’t. Did you know that she could curse fluently in five different languages? I mean, really, what use is it to know how to profane the dead in Fir Ran Ghazel? How often does that come in handy?”

  Augustine gave her a tell-me-more smile as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “I bet you can. I’m sure you’re incredible. They say Moya was the best ever because she invented archery and used a magic bow carved from the famous oracle tree of the Mystic Wood, but the Fhrey have a dexterity that humans and Belgriclungreians lack. We’ve all seen it. That’s why it was so incredible when Amicus Killian defeated Abryll Orphe in the arena. Of course, brute force is needed in hand-to-hand combat, but in archery . . . the daughter of Moya the Magnificent, who is also endowed with the Fhrey blood of an Instarya father, would be amazing.”

  Sephryn sighed again. “I suspect you’d be sadly disappointed. And just so you know, a good amount of brute force is required. Drawing Audrey is no easy feat.”

  “So you have used that bow?”

  Sephryn nodded. “Since I was a child. Mother insisted. They aren’t my happiest memories.”

  Time to change the subject, Sephryn thought. “Ambassador Brinkle, we weren’t lingering outside by accident,” she began. “We actually did wish to speak to you.”

  “Oh?” The dwarf’s eyes lit up with the firelight that he now faced, as his backside was adequately toasted.

  “We had a couple of questions, I believe?” She looked at Errol.

  He nodded. “I assume you know about gemlocks?”

  Alerted by overhead patter, they realized it had begun to rain.

  Augustine’s cup stopped halfway to his lips. He stared at Errol, as if just realizing the thief had been sitting with them. “This isn’t your manservant, is it?”

  Sephryn shook her head. “This is Errol Irwin, who considers himself a criminal mastermind, but wouldn’t call himself that because he finds it too pretentious.”

  Errol’s eyes widened, as did Brinkle’s. Each was shocked by opposite ends of the same idea. Both attempted to speak, but Sephryn pressed on over both. “I’m telling you this, which I’m certain is infuriating Mister Irwin, who has invested a great deal of time planning to burgle your business, in order that you understand I’m being completely honest.”

  “And why are you doing that?” Brinkle cast repeated glances at
Errol.

  “Yes,” Errol said with angry eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I desperately need your help and your trust, but I can’t say why.”

  “How come?” Augustine’s face was developing an angry expression.

  Sephryn realized how idiotic, how deceitful, all of it must sound, but she pushed on anyway. “If I told you the full details, your life and the lives of others would be in jeopardy, and truthfully, sir, you seem like a nice person—I wouldn’t want that.”

  “She’s not kidding about the jeopardy,” Errol said hotly. “I only wish she’d extended me the same courtesy.”

  The ambassador squinted at them. “At this point, I think it unwise to believe anything you say,” Brinkle said while looking at the thief. “I can’t believe I let you in here. I suppose I was simply so . . .” He gestured at Sephryn with an open palm. “I had no idea you—you of all people—would associate with his sort.” He looked again at Errol as if the thief were a hissing adder.

  Errol frowned. “I assume that by his sort, you mean an elite malefactor and premier intellectual.”

  Augustine continued to stare at the thief.

  “Ambassador Brinkle,” Sephryn said, “I must implore you to ignore him, for now. And no, I don’t normally associate with Mister Irwin. I only met him last night, and I’m forced to work with both of you because of extreme circumstances that have left me desperate. I have employed this man to aid me in obtaining a vital but difficult-to-acquire item.”

  “You’ve hired him to steal for you?”

  “Yes. And he has told me that your expertise is needed.”

  “Because what you are after is protected by a gemlock.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And you won’t tell me what this item is or why you need it?”

  “I could tell you, but I’m absolutely certain that once you either refused to help or told me what I need to know you would die a most horrible death.”

  Again, Brinkle narrowed his eyes.

  Sephryn looked up at the ceiling. “If you’re listening, I’m not going to tell him anything specific, but I do need to say a little—okay?”

  Both Sephryn and Errol looked around the room for anything that might fly. Nothing did. Sephryn took that as a yes and prayed she was right. “As you might guess, we are likely being overheard. By whom or what, I have no idea, except that the individual is extremely powerful and capable of killing any of us where we stand. Therefore, I need to be careful about what I say.”

  “This is most unusual,” Augustine said, then took a sip of tea, using both hands to lift the cup. “If you were anyone else, I would have thrown you out already. But I do find it hard to believe that the founder and Director of the Imperial Council is planning a greedy heist. And I find it utterly impossible to believe that the daughter of Moya and Tekchin would be so vile.”

  “And yet,” Sephryn began and sighed, “I quite expect you will be throwing us out. But before that happens, allow me to add that what I’m asking is a matter of imperial security and your help is needed to safeguard the future of the empyre.”

  “Are you serious? Do you really expect me to believe that you are acting—that you are stealing—for the good of the empyre?”

  “I swear on the soul of my late mother Moya and the name of my still-living father that I speak the truth,” Sephryn said, looking hard and unblinkingly into Augustine’s eyes. It wasn’t a lie; it only felt like one because she alone knew the truth. Sephryn hadn’t told anyone—not even Nolyn—that he had a son. Nurgya was heir to the imperial throne. Nolyn had been sent to war in the past and could be in the future, and Nyphron was likely entering his last millennium. Given that, her missing son might be all that stood between a peaceful transition of power and imperial implosion.

  The moment she swore by her famous mother, Sephryn saw what she had hoped for in the eyes of the dwarf—not belief but doubt. The ambassador wasn’t certain what to think. His disbelief left the door to his mind open a crack, just enough to slip a pry bar in. “My mother told me that before the Battle of Grandford, she, Persephone, and many of those you know as the Heroes of Legend went to seek help from Gronbach of the Belgriclungreians.”

  Brinkle’s face darkened. “I know that story, too. It has been the cause of great . . . problems between our peoples.”

  Sephryn nodded. “According to my mother, that dwarf’s betrayal brought about the destruction of the ancient city of Neith, the original home of your people.”

  “Yes. Sadly, King Rain’s recounting of that terrible day confirms that as well.”

  “Then tell me, ambassador, who do you want to be like today? Rain or Gronbach?”

  “That’s unfair.” He responded as if she’d threatened him with a caning.

  “I’m as desperate as Persephone when she arrived on the shores of Neith. This is a matter of life and death—no exaggeration. I need help just as certainly as my mother did.”

  The jewelry merchant and representative of the Belgriclungreians clutched his arms behind his back as he walked in a circular track around the room. He orbited the long table with its silver serving set and elaborate candelabrums, then paused to tug on his beard. “What is it you want to know exactly?”

  “Exactly. See? What did I tell you?” Errol smiled. “Precision.”

  Sephryn shook her head in embarrassment. “We need to know how to open a gemlock. Isn’t that right, Errol?”

  He nodded. “It’s a permanent safe. Can’t be moved, and there’s no chance of obtaining the gemkey. We need another way in.”

  Their host rubbed his hairy chin. “Has the original key been lost?”

  “No, the owner has it and isn’t going to lend it out. Is it possible to make a duplicate?”

  “Perhaps. If I had the original, but you’re telling me that’s not a possibility.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Someone knocked on the door, which was absurdly tall for an office of half-scale tables and chairs. The giant bronze door inched open hesitantly and a little man popped his head in. “Your morning staff meeting is awaiting you, sir.”

  “Tell them to hold it without me,” Augustine replied.

  “But, sir, Hammerman is unveiling the Sapphire Sprite today. I ordered fruit pies for the occasion.”

  Brinkle frowned. “I can’t help it, Lindy. Tell them to go on.”

  “I’ll save you a piece of blueberry, sir.”

  “Fruit pie this time of year?” Errol asked.

  “They pack them in ice.”

  “Ah. And the Sapphire Sprite?”

  Augustine frowned. “Don’t try to play me like a fool. I’m trying my best not to think you’re a common hiben.”

  Errol didn’t know what to make of that, but as the daughter of a legendary expert in international profanity, Sephryn did and struggled not to smile.

  “How does a gemlock work?” Sephryn asked.

  Augustine turned his attention to her. “A gemlock is a highly precise mechanism that works on the principle of complex resonance, vibrations created by gems.” He trotted to his short desk, where he picked up a gorgeous mahogany box and dumped it over, spilling out a pile of rough-cut gems. He picked up what looked to be a ruby the size of a human’s thumb and held it up.

  “Crystals are sensitive to energy that surrounds all things. This leads to oscillations and causes them to emit specific vibratory frequencies. The structure of a crystal, the lattice that makes it so balanced and ordered, releases a consistent vibration. In other words, a jewel hears the Voice of Elan and sings back to her, and each crystal has its own unique song. You can alter the tone by cutting the gem. The idea behind a gemlock is that you create a container whose locking mechanism will only react to a specific gem’s voice. Some common gemlocks are designed to react with any jewel of the same family, regardless of size or cut.” Augustine held up a little stone box and tapped the ruby to it. The top popped up. He then closed the lid and fished around on his desk for another ruby. Fi
nding one, he tapped it and the box opened again. “This is a Courier Gemlock. It got its name because it was designed to transfer messages among two or more people, all of whom needed to be able to open it. Anyone with a ruby can do so. In this case, I suppose you could say that the voice of the gem isn’t as important as the song it sings, and like birds of a feather, all rubies sing the same tune.”

  “Can we do that?” Sephryn asked. “We could use another ruby. I’m pretty sure that’s the gem we need.”

  “I doubt we are dealing with a Courier Gemlock,” Errol said. “I imagine this vault has an extremely sophisticated device.”

  “In that case, you are speaking of a mechanism that’s so finely crafted, it listens not only for the song but also for the specific voice of the gem. To open it, you’ll need either the gem made for that particular lock or an exact duplicate. And, of course, to make a copy would require obtaining the original.”

  “That’s impossible.” Sephryn looked at Errol.

  “There is another way,” Augustine said. “It’s possible to confuse the lock.”

  “How?” Errol asked, his eyes studying the diminutive ambassador with keen interest.

  “You can use a nullifying stone. If you know the gem family used to open the lock, then you could employ the opposite crystal.”

  “Opposite?”

  “Gem vibrations work a bit like pigments. There are three primary colors: red, blue, yellow. If I were to mix yellow and red together, they make orange. Green is created from yellow and blue, and purple comes from mixing red and blue, but if I put all of them together, I get black. This is complete color, or the utter lack thereof. However, if I mixed, let’s say, orange and blue, I would get gray, which is also a lack of color because orange and blue are complementary—not to be confused with complimentary, as in speaking well of, but rather the idea of completing something. Orange and blue cause the color intensity, or chroma, to be reduced.”

  “What does this have to do with gemlocks?” Sephryn asked.

  Augustine held up his finger. “Well, the same principle applies. Gem frequencies work much like colors. Just as using complementary colors nullifies the chroma, using the complementary frequency nullifies the vibration—or rather, it creates a complete vibration.”